Sneak Peak of Stories
by after-hessa
Summary: As promised, there are FIVE (5) new stories I've been working on and I have decided to release little snippets of each because of all of you lovely readers. I hope you enjoy them and please let me know what you think!


**A/N: So I was going through the rest of my drafts, and I didn't realize that I have FIVE new stories in the works. So you get FIVE new snippets for being such awesome readers! **

**Story No. 1** \- _Storm_

I arrived in New York a little over a week ago now. It rained for the first two days. I remember stepping out of Penn Station and seeing the bright lights all around even the outskirts of Times Square; and the sky was a murky, bronze color. It was rather pretty in the rain, actually. [...]

My apartment is far from posh—it's in a rundown little building on Bergen street off of Sixth Ave in the eastern part of Brooklyn. The exterior is a brownstone, with black shutters and a beautiful oak front door. The foyer is small and adorned with a wall housing mail slots to the right. Vines are growing up along the windows and the railings—I remember my mother's look of distaste when I told her I had found an apartment on the east side. She tried to convince me to find a place closer to Manhattan—particularly, a similar brownstone on the outskirts of Times Square—for nearly three times the rent I'm paying to live here. [...]

"_Brooklyn is dangerous at night, Tessa," my mother had warned me. I just gave her a rueful smile in return. _

"_About as dangerous as the rest of New York City, mom," I had laughed, "the crime rate has gone down since 2001, you know." _

My mother had just rolled her eyes then, her lips pursed. She wanted to argue more but she knew my mind was made up.

* * *

**Story No. 2** \- _[Currently Unnamed]_

My mother has trouble keeping her nose out of things that don't concern her… and I guess that's where I learned my habits from. I wouldn't call myself nosy, but I wouldn't say that I don't have nosy tendencies, either.

Our long-time neighbors, Ken and Trish Scott, are welcoming their son, Hardin, back home today. Their adopted son, Landon, is my best friend and they have their hands quite full with another boy around the age of five, named Smith. Three boys living next door… that would make a total of three boys around my age in the neighborhood, and only one girl—me.

Landon has told me how excited they all are for Hardin to return, but he feels different. Landon told me they don't get along like siblings tend to… he says Hardin is complicated, and difficult to get along with at times. They may be brothers, but they may as well be strangers. [...]

"Ken is a nice man, but that boy is nothing but trouble!" My mother huffs out, peering through the front curtains. I peek over her shoulder, curiously. There is a large pick-up truck parked in front of the house, and three boys are unloading the bed of the truck. One of them is Hardin himself, and the other two I remember from his grade in high school but I never got their names. [...]

I join my mother in the kitchen to clear my head. She is cutting up vegetables, paying no mind to me until I clear my throat. "When you say 'trouble'...?" I begin, gauging her reaction. My mother gives me a firm look.

"I mean, steer clear of him, Tessa," she replies sternly, "He is a bad influence. Ken told me he got into some new trouble while in London, but he wouldn't say what kind of trouble. It must follow him," my mother scoffs. "I suspect drunk brawling, or something more violent; just one look at him," she says, wrinkling her nose in disgust at the thought. She shakes her head, "Ugh, and all of those tattoos…"

"Dad had tattoos," I say quietly. My mother's hands still on the countertop, and her eyes meet mine.

"And you're father is no longer in our lives," she states. "He was just as bad, if not worse, for finding trouble. Please don't mention him again, Tessa." I sigh, feeling guilty for bringing him up—I know my mother will always be angry with him, but he is still my father. She never tells me anything about him, about why he left us. [...]

* * *

**Story No. 3** \- _The Humbling Down of Tessa Young_

"WHAT?"

I am sure I have just heard my parents wrong—they want me to get a part-time job, are they out of their minds? But when they give me a disapproving stare, I know I have heard them correctly.

"We have more money than we know what to do with, and you want me to get a job?" I ask shocked. I suppose it's not the worst thing in the world, but it's unnecessary for people like me.

"We want you to understand what it's like to work hard for your money," my father says lightly, touching a cold hand to my cheek. I roll my eyes.

"But I'll be going to college in the fall," I argue, "How am I supposed to do both? It's not like I will be wasting my life away doing nothing after the summer!"

"Tessa, this will be good for you," my mother replies, giving me her fakest smile. I don't believe her—people in the working world are going to take one look at me and wonder why I am even there. "Think of all that you will learn from this; time management, work ethic, real world situations... don't look so miserable, we're not punishing you." [...]

"Where would I even work?" I ask; I know they will have the answer, they are good at connections.

"We have a connection through a family friend," my father says, as if answering my thoughts, and he tries his best to sound reassuring.

"You will be waitressing. It's not a hard job at all, I did it for a little while before I met your father," my mother is so sure of herself, but it does nothing to ease my growing discomfort at the idea. "You will make fabulous tips—you're gorgeous and polite, and smart… I have already put in a good word for you."

"You didn't think I could handle an interview on my own?" This is where my parents are wrong; they want me to value a job, and to learn things the 'hard' way in life when necessary. But they have just about handed me this job on a silver platter.

"We wanted to be sure you would have a job," my father explains. I huff out a sigh, but I don't argue this time. It seems there is no way out of this, and I will have to endure it. But for how long, I'm not sure. They surely don't expect me to _keep_ this job... _right? _

"When exactly do I start this job?" I look between my mother and my father, waiting for my sentencing to begin.

My mother opens her mouth to speak, and states, "Tonight." [...]

**xxxxx**

"They got me a job," I sigh. "I'll be waitressing nights at the diner in town." It sounds worse as I relay all I know to Steph, and each of her horrified gasps is louder than the last.

"Oh my god, that's literally horrible!" She says, twirling a thick strand of curls around her finger. "If my father ever made me get a job, I'd just steal a bunch of cash from his safe and head to California. Fuck that!" she says, shaking her head.

I laugh at her, "You've already planned an escape, why am I not surprised?" As much as I love Steph, when it comes to being humble she is anything but. Money is all she's ever known, and I suppose the same could be said for me… but I don't try to act like a spoiled rich kid.

Steph also likes danger and drama. She's always on her phone, up to date with the latest drama and finding the best parties in town.

I'm not much of a party girl, however, Steph is. She's done things… I'm not even sure half of what she's done is legal. But she is my best friend so I don't judge her.

"Of course I have," she grins, "I'd rather be dead than downgraded. Poor does not look good on me, because I have money and I refuse to act like I don't use it." I roll my eyes; she is such a drama queen. "You're gonna be picking up tables after people lower than you with attitudes bigger than their paychecks. And for what? A shitty two dollar tip and a sense of achievement? It's bullshit—your parents are lying to you."

"I'm sure it's not going to be that bad," I tell her, trying to calm my own nerves.

"You don't even get to dress nice." She scrunches her nose up at the thought, "They're gonna stick you in an all black uniform. You may as well be attending a funeral."

"Jesus Christ, Steph!" I snap, "It's not that horrible. And I'm just thankful it's black—at least it's a slimming color."

"I'm happy you can find the positives," she says, shaking her head at me, "I wouldn't be caught dead waitressing."

"Thanks," I mutter, laying the sarcasm on thick. "That makes me feel better."

"I wanna know how it goes when your shift is over," she says.

"You do realize that the diner closes at midnight, right?" I tell her, "I won't be home until late."

"Ugh, you have to work like a slave," Steph pouts, "well, call me. I'll stay awake—I want to know if I'm right." She hands me a black polo and black slacks, holding them far away from her as possible, as if she were holding a trash bag and not clothes.

* * *

**Story No. 4** -_ (High School AU) [Currently Unnamed]_

It wasn't new to me, being the new girl at school. We've moved so many times over the last few years that my mother's job pretty much requires it. The Carol Young—a New York Times best selling author—who just so happens to be my mother, too.

I'm thankful for her successful writing career, but sometimes I wish our lives could just be normal. I wouldn't have to keep making new friends, only to leave them behind a year or two later. I can't help but think that I wouldn't feel so alone all the time, either. Because it is just me and my mom—it's been that way for a while now, but my mother isn't always home. If she's at book signings, or book tours, or talk shows, I stay home alone. What can I say? The spotlight loves her—that's where she spends the most time.

My parents divorced around the time my mother's career took off. My father, Richard, was bitter; bitter that she became the "breadwinner", and they constantly argued because of it. My father felt inferior; it was normal to come home and see him drinking himself silly, building up the confidence to scorn her on yet another fan letter addressed to our house. My parents divorced a year after her publishing deal—the money from my mother's first book paid for the lawyer.

I haven't seen him since I was thirteen, since we left him back in New York, so it's been a while; I will be eighteen soon, in December.

We're in Washington state now; our new home. My boxes are still sealed, sitting around me on my new bedroom floor, reminding me that this is normal.

New light yellow walls, but my same old, bulky comforter and my favorite books are pieces that come along with me to every new house.

I start school tomorrow—in the middle of the second week back for everyone else. While we were busy driving all the way from New York, the students at Washington State High School were filling up classrooms, picking lockers, and welcoming each other back for another year together. Their version of normal.

"Do you need help unpacking?" My mother asks from the doorway, breaking me from my thoughts. I shake my head; my mother and I used to be close, until she was never really around anymore. I wouldn't exactly say things are awkward between us, because she is my mother after all, but I can't escape the tension I feel when we have nothing to talk about.

"No, I think I can manage," I say, offering a half-smile to deliver the smallest blow. Her smile doesn't reach her eyes, so I add, "Thank you, though."

"Okay, I won't linger. I'll be downstairs if you need me," she says, leaving my room after a brisk moment. When she is out of sight and down the stairs I cross the room to the door and shut it slightly, leaving it cracked so she doesn't assume I'm trying to keep her out.

The truth is, I haven't felt like I've needed her help since I was thirteen. Not in the same way I haven't needed my father, but in their separate ways they've both similarly neglected me.

I know that's harsh to say, but it really is the truth.

Some time later, after I've positioned my furniture the way I want it and organized my smaller possessions, I join my mother downstairs for dinner. She's prepared my favorite meal; simple, grilled chicken with some greens and a small helping of wild rice. It's one of her favorites, too.

"I was afraid you would be organizing your room all night," she says, teasing me lightly.

"No, I'm too hungry to stay closed off in my room," I tell her, sliding my plate closer to me across the granite countertop.

"So you don't want to be a normal teenage girl, tonight," she says. I shake my head and thank her for the plate she's made up for me. [...]

**xxxxx**

I find my first class easily and I am the first one here. I take a seat in the back of the room, pulling out of my books and pens as other students filter into the classroom. A few students send me welcoming smiles, and a boy Nate and his friend, Zed, are the first to actually introduce themselves. Zed takes the seat next to me and Nate sits in the desk in front of him; I don't have much to offer in their topic of sports, so they mostly talk amongst themselves while I zip up my bag.

I look up to see a bright pink flash, and all of my books and utensils crash to the tile floor. All eyes gather to the source of the sound, and I find myself looking into the smug expression of a girl with heavy, black make-up around her eyes. Her lips are pressed into a rueful smirk and the way she leans on my desk I can't help but notice that the shirt she is wearing is too tight and too low-cut for the school dress code. "You're sitting in my seat," she says, nodding her head to each word and dragging them out in a condescending manner.

"I didn't know..." I say, stunned. From the corner of my eye, I notice Zed gathering up my pens and my books, "I..."

"Move!" She snaps.

"Chill out, Molly," Nate says, rolling his eyes, "it's a seat. Not Hardin's lap..." I don't know who Hardin is, but by the way Molly has already treated me I think it's safe to assume that if she's this petty over a desk, she would be even worse over her 'boyfriend's lap' as Nate had said. I stand up and dodge any more of her rough manner, thanking Zed quietly as he hands me all of my belongings. He motions for the desk beside him on the other side, putting a safe distance between me and Molly. Nate leans over, speaking loud enough for her to hear.

"Don't let her get under your skin," Nate says, "she's just a bitch."

"Proud of it, too," Molly retorts, cutting her eyes at him. He sighs, shaking his head.

"Like I said. Don't let her bother you," and just as he says this, the last of the students filter into class and Mr. Soto begins class immediately. He starts by welcoming me to the school and his classroom; I have always hated introducing three facts about myself, so I am thankful when he doesn't ask me to. [...]

* * *

**Story No. 5** -_ [Currently Unnamed]_

"Have you never been kissed before?" Hardin asks thoughtfully. His eyes linger on my lips the closer he gets, until our faces are inches apart and I can feel each of his breaths on my skin. He just skims his lips across mine, teasing me.

"Uh, well no that's not entirely true… I did kiss a boy on the playground in third grade. It was completely by accident and actually quite gross at the time—," I trail off as Hardin shakes his head at my pathetic attempt to not sound so inexperienced. He smirks, his lips less than an inch away. I wonder if he can hear my pulse; my heart is hammering in my chest at our proximity but I need him closer, still.

"Stop talking, Tessa," he whispers amused, pressing his lips to mine, completely closing the space. It is the lightest touch I have ever felt, but it sets me on fire like gasoline. When he pulls back I am afraid I have done something wrong, but then he kisses me harder and I'm surprised by how my body automatically knows how to respond to him.

Hardin's fingers hold my chin in place as his tongue finds my bottom lip, and I let him in. His mouth tastes like mint, and it's a heavenly combination as his breaths become my air.

He moans against my lips and it elicits a euphoric sigh of my own; together, it is the best sound I have ever heard, and I pull him closer. His fingers dig into the skin above my hips, and I just know he needs me closer too.

A loud "gross!" breaks us from our moment, and my head snaps in the direction of the sound—it's Smith, standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, staring wide-eyed at the both of us.

"Gross! She's a girl!" Smith cries.

"Shit," Hardin sighs between labored breaths.

"She's got cooties!"

"Smith, I—!" I start to conjure up a white lie but he takes off into the kitchen before I can finish my sentence. I look back at Hardin, who is already looking at me again. "What do we do? Now he'll surely never utter another word to me!"

"Relax, Tessa," Hardin shakes his head, "he'll go play with his train set and forget about it."

"You don't understand," I say, "I finally got him to say more than 'hello' and 'thank you', and now I'm just ridden with cooties to him!"

"He's seven," Hardin retorts, twirling a thick strand of my hair between his long fingers. He tucks it behind my ear, and says, "He doesn't even know what a kiss is."

"He's does now," I sigh. "We just practically gave him a lesson!" Hardin rolls his eyes.

"He'll forget about it."

"I hope you're right," I sigh, defeated and try my best to ignore the urge to bribe Smith's silence with a new toy train set. How embarrassing—although it could have been much worse if Hardin's father caught us, I'm mortified it was Smith! He may only be seven, but that little boy is a genius and I know he knows what he saw. _Hardin thinks he will forget... I'm certain that's unlikely. _

I drop my head into my hands. I know I am blushing hard, I can feel the heat under my skin and I know it's no longer from Hardin's sweet, but desperate kiss.

I can only imagine what would happen if Vance finds out.


End file.
